


Contracted

by aishahiwatari



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Hair, D-List Supe Butcher, First Kiss, Getting Together, Knotting, M/M, Non-Human Genitalia, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Scenting, Wolfman Butcher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: Compound V changed him. Whether it enhanced him is up for debate; he’s stronger, his senses are more acute. It’s enough to fulfil Vought’s contract with him. But he’s caught somewhere between wolf and human, his ears pointed and furred and so sensitive that being in public hurts, as though the conflicting smells weren’t enough to drive him mad as it was. His nails are claws, both his hands and feet closer to paws. He had a decent amount of body hair before but now it’s thick and wiry, and he’s furred all over. Somewhere in the back of his mind is the sneaking suspicion he’s now colour-blind.And yes. He has a tail.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Comments: 22
Kudos: 374
Collections: Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	Contracted

**Author's Note:**

> A collaboration with the wonderful [Trick](https://lt-trick.tumblr.com/) who has also created [so](https://lt-trick.tumblr.com/post/612644103294959616/been-chatting-with-aishahiwatari-about-my-current) [much (slighly gory, this one)](https://lt-trick.tumblr.com/post/614539895918264320/another-and-maybe-the-final-bit-done-for-the) [gorgeous (slightly NSFW)](https://lt-trick.tumblr.com/post/613078057753968640/more-from-my-running-thoughts-stoked-by) [artwork](https://lt-trick.tumblr.com/post/613632046246608896/i-had-to-only-show-part-of-this-since-the-whole) for this 'verse while I just went ahead and wrote porn. Please go and share and comment on how wonderful they are, I'll wait here.

It gets to be too much.

And not just because Butcher hasn’t lived with anyone since Becca. It’s for any number of reasons, the least of which is that Hughie seems to be entirely unaware of all the things that make Butcher an inhuman freak of nature. He passes him things across flat surfaces when he can, to avoid Butcher having to take them directly from his hand, terrified all the while that he’ll hurt him with his perpetually sharp claws. He’ll stand between Butcher and the rest of the room, bump his side and smile and start a distracting conversation whenever a child or their parent points and whispers or just makes a comment outright.

When Butcher comes home, exhausted by the rest of the world, tired of being himself, of living with the mistake he made when he went to Vought for help, when he did everything he could to protect a woman who wouldn’t even look him in the eye by the end- Hughie’s there.

He makes tea, and then coffee. He brings over leftovers that are covered in cheese, maybe in the hopes he won’t notice they’re also full of the nutrition he needs, even taking into account the additional protein Butcher consumes to keep his quasi-enhanced body from wasting away. He tidies up anything that might grow mould but leaves the rest, so Butcher can always find what he’s looking for in the organised chaos of his shitty apartment.

They met at a counselling session for those affected by the Vought corporation. Butcher’s attendance was mandated by his probation officer, flagrantly capitalising on Butcher’s desire to stay out of prison despite his myriad objections to the corporation and their continuing use of unethical business practices.

Hughie had looked like he was there because it was something somebody had told him would help with the emptiness inside of him. He was a shell. Butcher wasn’t even convinced the counsellor running the session had even noticed he was there with how he shrank in on himself with such commitment.

Some people at the meetings had lost relatives or suffered personal injury at the hands of Supes. Many of them, Butcher included, had signed up for the procedure that would attempt to turn them into superhumans themselves. The resulting mutation was random, and although Vought’s marketing had always been carefully worded to cater for every possibility, the call of potential power was enough to overcome all but the most prevailing reluctance.

It had been enough for Butcher, anyway. After seeing how Becca came home from work every day, cowed and drained of energy and confidence, unable to tell him anything but with fear in her eyes whenever he tried to convince her-

He’d known he had to be stronger. With all the resources at his disposal then, he’d been unable to find evidence that Vought’s procedures had a significant failure rate.

Now, he knows different.

Compound V changed him. Whether it enhanced him is up for debate; he’s stronger, his senses are more acute. It’s enough to fulfil Vought’s contract with him. But he’s caught somewhere between wolf and human, his ears pointed and furred and so sensitive that being in public hurts, as though the conflicting smells weren’t enough to drive him mad as it was. His nails are claws, both his hands and feet closer to paws. He had a decent amount of body hair before but now it’s thick and wiry, and he’s furred all over. Somewhere in the back of his mind is the sneaking suspicion he’s now colour-blind.

And yes. He has a tail. He straps it to his leg when he goes out, because he hasn’t quite figured out the fucking thing yet and it’s a tell he could do without when it starts wagging or retreats between his legs.

He lost his job, had been hoping he’d be able to keep his visible enhancements under wraps until he could submit the necessary paperwork for his registration but had that plan foiled.

Becca took one look at him and recoiled in horror, took a few more and left. He couldn’t afford their shared apartment on his own, with the odd jobs he picks up, and it’s not like anyone will accept him as a new tenant once they get a look at him. He looks like a dirty animal and Vought drops the enhanced beings they can’t market like they’re burning. He can’t prove there’s something on his file but he suspects, has been turned away from enough opportunities to realise his new place in the world.

He was homeless for a while, although probation sorted him out with his sorry excuse for a flat. After he spent some long days and nights on the street only to have some cunt offer to buy him something to eat and return with a smirk on his face and a tin of dog food in his hand.

Butcher threatened to do a lot of things and was halfway through fulfilling those promises by the time the fucking cops turned up. At least his reputation and some good words from a couple of his former colleagues got him bail and supervision with a requirement to improve himself, rather than a prison sentence.

So at the meetings, he sat hunched over, hood up, trying not to listen to thirteen people breathing, coughing, sniffing, rambling on about their terrible fucking lives that were somehow still better than his. He said less than everyone except Hughie, sank deeper into his chair with every sideways look and whisper, counted the seconds until the sessions were over and then slunk out as soon as he could convince the counsellor to sign his attendance sheet.

There was something about Hughie though. There always has been. A kind of inner strength that shines through, no matter how much he doubts or how hard he tries to hide it.

Butcher wasn’t sure what it was, at first. He thought it was idle curiosity, a mystery that needed solving just for the pride and achievement that would result. He started to observe things; the collection of band T-shirts; the three creamers and four sugars Hughie added to his coffee; the barely-suppressed wince at any mention of A-Train.

When he was sitting close, the scent of him overwhelmed Butcher’s senses. Whatever washing powder he used, and his deodorant, soap, but then ozone and fresh air, on one occasion an intense smell of damp earth and grass, like he’d been laying in it for hours. It was good, natural and real. Butcher sat next to him. Just to mask the smell of everyone else.

And- okay. Butcher followed him. Just a little, a couple of times. They were going the same way, and Butcher probably needed the exercise. He hadn’t been out a lot recently, and if he occasionally got the urge to fight, or to run- well, he could push those down. The streets weren’t exactly a good place for him, with the way he was, and the way people were.

He just- wanted to make sure Hughie was okay. It was- a good deed. Keeping him safe.

Except one day Butcher turned a corner, hadn’t even thought anything of the slightly different route, and he had been keeping a respectable distance but not much of one, not enough to lose him. For a moment, he froze.

"What do you want from me?" Hughie asked. From behind him.

Butcher was wearing his hoodie so he didn’t have the best peripheral vision, and he didn't respond very well to being cornered. He turned on him and snarled, defensive even though he knew he was the one in the wrong. But it didn't even earn him a flinch. Hughie just looked at him and waited. Like he didn't even really want the answer or care about the outcome, regardless of the threat to his safety.

Butcher's heart broke a little to see it. He hadn't thought it could even still do that, anymore.

"You never say anything at the meetings."

"Neither do you."

With a snort, Butcher just gestured to himself. "The fuck is there to say about this?"

Hughie looked confused. Mildly. Like something inside of him had taken a step back from life, but he was too inherently curious for it to quite win out, this time.

Butcher's shoulders sagged, where they'd been tense and raised. Where he'd been ready to fight. Instead, he reached up to pull his hood down.

Hughie was even more broken than Butcher had thought, didn't even flinch at the sight of him. He just looked him over like he might be deeply unimpressed if he could even bother to overcome his ambivalence enough to show that emotion.

Then he sighed. "Look. I've got nothing to say. Nothing for you. You'd be best off just- leaving me alone. I don’t think I’m even going to bother going to the meetings anymore. I only went because my dad thought it’d be a good idea."

“Give me your number.”

“’Scuse me?”

Fuck. Butcher was so bad at this. “If you give me your number, we can text. Your dad’ll be pleased you made a friend, I’ll know you’re alright and you won’t feel like you need to have emotions on cue any more. Everybody wins.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Billy Butcher,” Butcher thrust a hand out -old habits died hard, and all- without thinking that his furred, clawed paw of a hand was definitely going to give the wrong impression.

Hughie didn’t take it, and Butcher didn’t blame him, but he did consider it briefly enough for Butcher not to have cringed back by the time Hughie unlocked his phone and handed it over. Their fingers brushed when Butcher had tapped his number in and passed it back, and Hughie didn’t flinch.

“Thanks,” Hughie said doubtfully, then, like there might be more, like Butcher might demand he take him home or, yes, okay, just stalk him some more.

“See you later,” Butcher said instead, with an approximation of a smile, unwilling to reveal his sharp teeth in the dangerously sensitive moment. He was aware that he didn’t also have Hughie’s number, that if he’d been thinking straight he should have dialled his own from Hughie’s phone. Instead he was giving him the choice despite the tugging at his heartstrings as Hughie offered a resigned twist of his lips in exchange and walked away.

A whimper escaped Butcher’s throat as he lost sight of him, and then he snarled to himself because he was not a bloody teenaged girl with a crush.

His phone vibrated, and although he couldn’t summon up much enthusiasm for the thought of human interaction at that moment, the message was only a waving hand emoji from an unknown number. When Butcher looked up, he thought he saw someone disappear around the corner and out onto the street.

His tail wagged so hard it nearly split his pants. Fucks sake.

He replied with a thumbs up emoji then immediately felt like a dickhead. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Except Hughie texted, “Thank you,” and he stared at it the whole way home, and then some more.

It wouldn’t last, couldn’t possibly, but he planned to enjoy it while it did.

They texted. Just the odd few words here and there, nothing intense or meaningful. True to his word, Hughie didn’t come to the next meeting, and Butcher missed him with a sharp ache in his chest that terrified him. He shouldn’t be getting attached. He was just doing Hughie a favour, genuinely expecting nothing in return. Butcher was a terrible person but he was doing his best to behave like a good one.

He sloped out of the meeting in an even worse mood than ever. And Hughie was waiting with coffee. A cup in each hand.

“I brought you- I know the stuff in there is crap.”

“Yeah, it’s shit.”

“Do you wanna- go sit in the park?”

“I can’t sit, been sitting for too long already. How about a walk?”

Hughie, Butcher remembered, had blinked, looked a little surprised to be denied, but then he nodded. He handed Butcher a cup, and their fingers brushed like he wasn’t consciously trying to avoid that. And then they walked.

The more time they spent together, the more Butcher realised that what Hughie needed wasn’t the counselling or the cossetting he’d been receiving everywhere else. He needed someone to treat him like he was normal. Like his life wasn’t forever changed by whatever happened.

Butcher- probably took things a step too far, sometimes. He had never been known for his gentle coaxing, and when Hughie was acting irrationally, Butcher ended up riling him up, saw him storm out and convinced himself he was never going to see him again more than once.

But Hughie always came back. In tears or with red eyes or furious and yet never once close to lashing out, always contained. He’d never hurt anyone, no matter what had happened to him or how little he understood why he’d suffered such a loss. Butcher did his best, in those times. He tried to listen and to sympathise, and he wasn’t good at it, but Hughie knew that. He accepted Butcher’s limitations despite his ongoing frustration with his own, and Butcher would have done anything if it meant making Hughie’s life a little easier.

-

So the point is that Hughie’s too good for him, too kind and too decent, and one day Butcher attempts to make him see that, because so far he somehow hasn’t noticed that he’s befriending and occasionally unintentionally flirting with a monster. Hughie encourages him, maybe even cares about him, and it’s beginning to give Butcher hope and he just can’t stand it.

So Hughie’s at Butcher’s place, even though his own is warm and tidy and clean and doesn’t have black mould growing in the bathroom no matter what he does, and he’s made dinner, and he’s asked a few times, in different ways, how Butcher’s day has been. He walks past Butcher and squeezes closer than is necessary, with the space available.

Butcher snaps and backs him up against the wall and snarls. “What do you want from me?”

For a moment, it’s a jarring rendition of the first conversation they ever had, and Hughie’s expression actually softens at the display of violence directed at him despite the fact he’s done nothing to deserve it, and Butcher’s done nothing to deserve him.

“I just- wanna be around you. I can go, if- tonight’s not good for you.”

“You shouldn’t be here at all. You shouldn’t want anything I can give you. It’s not safe!”

"You'd never hurt me." Hughie is so damn sweet, and he smiles and speaks with the utmost conviction, the most impressive naivety for someone currently pressed bodily against the wall by a monster like Butcher.

So it's only fair to punctuate his words with a low growl, with leaning in so Hughie can see the inhuman shine in his eyes, the animal sharpness of his teeth. "I could tear your throat out right here and there's not a thing you could do to stop me."

Hughie shudders but it takes Butcher a few, long breaths to realise that the scent he's giving off isn't the acrid tang of fear to which he’s grown so accustomed. It's not the pervading bitterness of disgust that always rolled off Becca, that he tried to rationalize away before he realised that nobody in their right mind would ever want him the way he is now.

Hughie's scent is the sweetest, most secret essence of him, a rush of something Butcher has only registered in passing before, when nobody around has noticed him.

It's the scent of honest, helpless arousal, and Butcher has a low growl rumbling in the back of his throat without conscious thought, his instincts surging to the fore as he nuzzles into the vulnerable, soft curve of Hughie's throat and drinks him in.

He can hear and feel the rapid beating of his heart, blood pounding so close to the surface, hot and vibrant with life, carrying Hughie's spirit to every beautiful edge of his body. When his teeth graze the thin, silken barrier, all that stands between him and Hughie's jugular, the soft whimper barely within the range of human hearing is music to his ears.

Hughie was fucking right after all; Butcher could never risk hurting him, would kill anyone who tried, tilts his head so that when he bites it's at the curve of his jaw, a sharp burst of pain but no threat to life. It makes Hughie gasp and shudder when he should be screaming, makes him clutch at his arms and drag him closer when he should be shoving him away and escaping. He makes such poor decisions but Butcher can’t bring himself to correct him, to do the decent thing and put as much space between them as possible. This is wrong. It’s so much more than he deserves.

“You should run,” he manages to bite out against all his baser instincts but Hughie furiously shakes his head right into the meeting of their mouths, the clash of teeth softened by the seal of their lips as though they were designed to fit together. He tastes like ozone, sharp and vibrant but every slide of their tongues brings him closer to melding that with the dark tang of blood that tinges Butcher’s every breath.

Hughie’s clinging to him, fingertips digging bruises into even Butcher’s thick skin, and he doesn’t still for a moment, rolling his hips and pulling to urge him closer, to have no space between them and Butcher’s weight pressing him even more firmly against the wall. He’s not lying about wanting this, and why would he? Butcher has nothing to offer him but himself, and that is more of a punishment or a curse than a reward.

Butcher had thought Hughie was sunlight, softly warming, bright and vibrant, but he is the sun, fiery and too dazzling to gaze at directly, hot to the touch, utterly necessary.

He’d burn alive for a single chance at this.

He’s too rough, and what feels like a light graze to him splits Hughie’s lip. His grip has to be bruising, he realises, where he’s holding Hughie’s hips, pushing him back, trying to keep that gorgeous body from meeting his own because then it will all be over. A kiss is one thing, as frantic and heartfelt as it might be, but Butcher is as much animal as he is human, and he won’t subject Hughie to the worst of what he’s become.

It feels too good to have Hughie’s blood on his tongue, to be allowed to submit to even this fraction of his nature. He’ll stop before he goes too far, he will. He just wants to feel desired for a while, to curb the worst of the urges because he can’t have this, but maybe remembering this moment will keep him warm on the long, lonely nights after Hughie’s told him to go.

There’s a whine forming in the back of his throat at the thought, and he doesn’t know if Hughie hears it or feels the way his body sags and his movements slow, but his hands slide upward, threading into Butcher’s hair, scratching at his scalp, cradling his jaw, just gentling him into a soft, slow kiss that’s-

Loving.

Oh, no. “Hughie-“

“Butcher,” Hughie breathes in answer, against his lips, soft and desirous, possibly because Butcher’s own tone was as far from an objection as it was possible to be. He can feel his resistance eroding with every touch, with the caress of Hughie’s fingers, the cautious rub behind his ears that makes him want to purr like a cat. Like he there’s a chance he doesn’t mind, might even like the parts of Butcher that mark him as a freak.

What could be the harm, he wants to know, in letting himself have this? Just this once.

He allows his hands to slide upwards, gathering Hughie’s T-shirt up as he does, so careful of his claws the whole way. The skin he exposes is smooth and warm, with just the faintest hint of downy hair. Butcher wants to bury his face in it and never leave, but also Hughie’s shirt needs to be removed, and he can’t bring himself to break their kiss, concerned that one or both of them will come to their senses before he gets the chance to touch, to savour and worship this ridiculous, beautiful man who could do so much better but is miraculously here with him.

He whines his indecision, and he feels Hughie smile, scratch encouragingly at his ears as he turns his head just enough that they’re no longer kissing, just sharing air. Butcher hardly dares to look at him, and his heart seizes when he does. Hughie’s flushed and breathless and his pupils are blown wide. There’s a red mark across his jaw, the imprint of Butcher’s teeth that marks him as his, and his chest rises and falls in time with his laboured breaths. He’s soft and relaxed but for the restless shifting of his hips, the telling bulge in his pants that reveals he’s just as affected by this as Butcher is.

“You’re not going to run if I let you go, are you?” It’s Hughie who asks, and Butcher’s heart shatters at the sight of his gentle smile and the resigned tone of his voice, like he isn’t everything Butcher’s ever dreamed of and more. He looks so sad, and so beautiful, and-

“I should be asking you that.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Unless you want me to-“

“No!” Butcher pushes him against the wall when Hughie begins to peel himself away from it, is ready to feel horrified by himself but only receives a gasp and another wave of that dark, aroused scent. Absolute trust, and submission, even knowing what he is.

Except- Hughie doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know what the final nail in the coffin of his last relationship was. Why Becca couldn’t even stand to look at him anymore, why she recoiled and covered her mouth with the hand with which she’d been reaching for him and said, “I can’t do this.”

And then she left.

But she’d never smelled like this. She’d never reached for him first, certainly never allowed him to push her up against anything, could barely make eye contact with him after the change, but it’s like Hughie can’t stop staring at him. His hands are still in Butcher’s hair. He’s never flinched away, has always pressed close and found excuses to touch him and-

Maybe.

Butcher allows himself to hope, but, “There’s something you should know.”

“You can tell me anything.”

How does anyone this fucking perfect even exist?

“I’m-” Butcher swallows when the words get stuck in his throat. Fuck, when did this get so difficult? He needs to tell him, can’t stand getting to that most revealing of moments and having this end, abruptly and painfully. But how can he even say it when he tries so hard not to think about it, so much of the time? When he wants Hughie to keep looking at him like that, not with disgust and horror in his eyes.

"You know about the tail," he says, for another few moments of delay, and Hughie nods, smiles lop-sided and sincere.

"I know about the tail. I love the tail. It's- how I know you're happy to see me.”

Butcher snorts and wishes he was brave enough to confess that he’s always happy to see Hughie. That he’d bask in his presence at all hours of the day if he could ever feel like he deserved that level of satisfaction. Too late, he realises he’s still standing there with Hughie’s shirt rucked up and a furred hand splayed possessively across his sternum but there’s not been a hint of complaint. Hughie’s still so-gently playing with his ears, and it’s sending pleasurable little ripples down his spine, making it very difficult to focus. It is lovely, though, and without meaning to he presses closer, tugs Hughie’s shirt down but crowds him against the wall with his body like it can possibly help him find the words he needs.

It does bring the anatomy in question into much closer contact, through the barriers of their clothing. Maybe as close as he’ll ever get. “I’m not- human. You know that.”

“Butcher. I know. What is it? Because there is- nothing that can make me want you, or like you, any less than I do.”

“You don’t know that.”

Something in his face must reveal how intensely this is affecting him, because Hughie brings a hand down, places it in Butcher’s much bigger animal paw like the contrast between them is nothing to be terrified of. “Just tell me. Or- is it easier to show me?”

It’s almost a joke, that at this point Butcher would have to unbutton his trousers in order to do that. He wants to laugh, anyway, cradles Hughie’s slim, gentle fingers in his and brings them to his lips to kiss them, as sure an expression of his adoration as he can manage. Hughie’s trying so hard to understand and Butcher’s the one making it difficult. He’s so sorry, for this and what Hughie’s about to find out about him, about how impossible this thing between them might be.

Hughie leans in for a brief, soft kiss, looks him in the eye and nods. He’s as ready as he’s ever going to be, and he tastes of Butcher, and he lingers like he might be the more heartbroken one between them, if they didn’t get the chance to do it again.

Butcher sighs, takes his last look at those beautiful eyes, the smile directed at him, is sure Hughie has to at least suspect as he battles his button and zipper with his free hand, drops his gaze and eases both his jeans and pants down just enough. He’s not going to make Hughie touch if he doesn’t want.

He hears Hughie gasp, his breathing ragged and panicked to Butcher’s ears. His scent doesn’t immediately curdle but maybe he’s too stunned to think, and his hand slips free from Butcher’s like he’s withdrawing, so Butcher’s closes around nothing, clenched into a loose fist in an attempt to retain that warmth.

At the first featherlight brush of fingertips against the furred, inhuman sheath of his cock, Butcher whines, doesn’t dare look. Nobody but him has ever touched it, and even that’s been rare. It doesn’t respond to stimulation in the same way as it did and he’s never had the motivation to explore. With all he and Hughie have done so far, his body has been starting to respond but he hasn’t given it much thought, not until the first cautious touch to the protruding tip, so sensitive he can’t help but gasp and he has to press his palm against the wall to keep himself upright.

He’s looked before he can remember how little he wants to see, the dark, blood-rich purple flesh a stark contract to Hughie’s pale, slim fingers, the head bulbous and the tip drawing to a blunt point over which Hughie thumbs, spreading the pearly bead of fluid there. Like he’s curious, and he wants to touch, and he’s not horrified by the very sight of him, closer to animal than human.

There’s a question in Hughie’s eyes when Butcher manages to meet them, even though his every touch is sending blissful shivers down Butcher’s spine, even though he’s the only person to have ever considered him in such a way, even though he swallows wetly and the scent of his desire is more potent than ever. He’s caressing, cautiously, but it’s like he’s concerned than Butcher might be hurt or unwilling, not like he might be reluctant or doubtful himself. After wrapping his hand around the sheath, stroking lightly to coax more of Butcher’s cock from within, he gives him a sweet, reassuring smile.

There is so much Butcher could say to him. Thoughts fight to be vocalised in a swirling cacophony of apologies and thanks and excuses and helpless, pleasured groans. Butcher craves more but has no idea how to ask for it, isn’t sure he dares. He’ll make this awkward without meaning to, or he’ll ruin everything.

He thinks Hughie will know what to say, and in a way he does.

He sinks to his knees without a word.

Butcher nearly comes then and there, just at the sight of him. He’s still stroking, his eyes on the head of Butcher’s emerging length, his lips shining where he’s licked them. It’s impossibly good, and Hughie telegraphs his movements clearly but it’s a startling, blissful rush to feel and see him open his mouth and cushion the head of Butcher’s cock on his tongue. He’s so careful of his teeth, suckles on what has to be an unfamiliar shape and lavishes attention on it with soft laps and deft swirls, and he strokes. He swallows the generous beads of creamy fluid that leak as Butcher tries helplessly to control himself and even delves his tongue into the slit for more, and he squirms like he enjoys it so much he’s hard in the confines of his jeans too, just from kissing him, from having Butcher’s cock in his hand and mouth.

“Hughie-“ Butcher warns, desperately trying to gentle his hold, to resist the urge to bury deep and fuck his come down that delicate throat. He only moderately succeeds, but every tug on his hair, every thrust past soft lips only makes Hughie press closer, work to take more. He’s perfect. He’s beautiful and Butcher finds he can release his hair to caress his face, to push his thumb into the hollow of a cheek and feel the slide of his cock past it.

He remembers, distantly, what it feels like to come at the efforts of another. There’s a pressure building at the base of his cock that’s not unpleasant, but it’s not familiar either, and the exploratory touch of his own hand reveals a spongy swelling there, one so responsive to even that small contact that an instinctive tight squeeze has him coming with a snarl.

Hughie coughs, but he’s not in distress; Butcher would never stand for it. He swallows and laughs, almost, at the undignified drip of come down his chin, laps at what he wipes with the back of his hand. He’s flushed and a little sheepish when he confesses, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

And Butcher is acutely aware that the one person who might actually be able to convince him to feel love again just unceremoniously blew him on the floor in the hallway without even a hint of reciprocation, and he feels fucking terrible about it.

If somebody else did that to his Hughie, he’d want to kill him. “I’m sorry it wasn’t-“

He can’t find the words, is still breathless and seeing stars and thanking any higher power that will listen for this chance, but Hughie just shrugs, leans in to catch a final drop of come on his tongue, not deterred for an instant even though Butcher’s cock is still disconcertingly hard, his knot swollen and ugly, like scar tissue wrapped around the base, and he says, “There’s always next time.”

Oh, yes. Butcher’s animal nature surges and he’s hauled Hughie to his feet and ducked to push his shoulder into Hughie’s stomach, lifting him up into a fireman’s carry before he can react except to yelp, startled. He laughs breathlessly, as Butcher brings him to his bedroom and deposits him among the unmade sheets, pushes him down when he attempts to sit up and reverently undresses him, careful of his claws the whole time. He’s not going to hurt him, even though the rush of scent when he unbuttons Hughie’s jeans cloaks his vision in red, every instinct he has urging him to claim and mark, to caress and collide their bodies until Hughie smells of him, to bite and mark and worse. Much worse.

He has to stop to pant for a moment to get that part of himself under control, can’t even tell Hughie that he shouldn’t want to so much as touch him right now, not when he’s considering doing such terrible things. Still, though, he pets Butcher’s ears, strokes his hair without a hint of fear, with honest affection and a fond smile on his face. Cautiously, because he’s under control but it’s by a fragile thread that could break at any moment, Butcher crawls up, noses at Hughie’s throat.

He can smell himself, here, the musky intimacy of their shared scents soothing and helping to clear his head, at least enough to lift his head for a kiss. He dares to touch Hughie’s cheek, feels the crease of his smile, the hesitant brush of fingers against his chest where the buttons of his shirt seek to keep a single barrier between them.

There’s a lot of hair on his chest but Hughie hums, pleased, when he’s allowed to touch, when he can splay his palm across Butcher’s sternum and feel where it’s thickest, like he might even like it.

Even Butcher, with all he’s been led to believe about himself, is beginning to suspect he might.

“You- like this,” he can’t help but say, as Hughie fights their respective pairs of jeans and pants, kicking them aside with triumphant pleasure.

“I like you.” Hughie shrugs, happily settling back down, pulling Butcher on top of him, reaching down to run a covetous hand over his ass and tug at his tail then laughing when Butcher bares his teeth. “It’s not so weird. Not like you’ve got tentacles or a vagina with teeth. They’re all just- parts of you. Were you really worried?”

“Hughie. I’m an inhuman freak. Kids point me out on the street. My own wife couldn’t stand to look at me, let alone-“

That one does turn Hughie’s gaze dark, his tone vengeful. “Her loss. You’re not a freak. You’re just- fluffy.”

He laughs again when Butcher presses him into the sheets and attempts to roughly kiss that attitude out of him.

Butcher had honestly forgotten sex could be fun. And he’s felt so many things for Hughie for so long but never believed any of this could be possible, so when they’re done wrestling, and he has that hot, slim, gorgeous body pinned to the bed beneath him, his hands wrapped carefully around Hughie’s wrists so his claws can’t inflict any of the damage of which they’re so capable- he finally allows himself to want.

His low, possessive growl makes Hughie’s hips hitch in anticipation. His gaze is fixed on Butcher’s mouth, his sharp teeth, and his breathing is ragged from exertion, from trying to fight when Butcher’s so much stronger than he is. He’s also insistently, unrepentantly hard, his cock dark and leaking, so perfect and shapely and fragile that Butcher hardly dares to touch. His claws are sharp, his teeth worse, and Hughie responds beautifully to pain but Butcher can’t contemplate causing injury.

“Roll over,” he urges, and Hughie does without question, snatches up Butcher’s pillow and wraps his arms around it, buries his face in it like he’s as comforted by the scent he finds there as Butcher is by his. He allows himself to be guided up on his knees even as he whimpers from the loss of friction between his aching cock and the sheets, and he spreads his legs and arches his back so beautifully Butcher has to grit his teeth to not just take him there and then, to tear him apart inside and hear him scream for the brief moments of pleasure it would bring him.

But he is not that animal.

Hughie would be able to do nothing to stop him, and so he must find the strength to control himself.

Butcher knows he’s making intermittent growling sounds not by the rumble in his own chest but the responsive shivers that run down Hughie’s spine, anticipatory. He’s watching over his shoulder, curious without a hint of tension, and his cheeks flush a little pink and his lashes flutter when Butcher carefully reaches out to spread his cheeks, to expose him to Butcher’s hungry gaze, but he doesn’t flinch away, pushes back into the touch and demands more.

“Pushy,” isn’t meant to come out sounding like praise but it does, and then Hughie is rewarded with the first slow, wet swipe of tongue over the hot, resisting furl of his hole.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, possibly too quietly for anyone but Butcher to have heard, and it gives Butcher a rush of possessive pleasure at the thought before he applies himself to his task.

He would taste Hughie all over if he let him, kiss and lick every single inch of his body, suck until he left purpling marks where the blood was drawn close to the surface, but it’s right here that his scent is at its most concentrated and potent. It’s glorious, musky and sweet, and Butcher takes his time with little care for Hughie’s whimpered pleas for more. He laps and he lathes, teasing that sensitive expanse of skin with soft strokes of his tongue and the careful application of sucking kisses, breathing him in and combining their essences until Hughie’s breathing in gentle sobs and Butcher can hear the drip of his cock onto the sheets. He has a hand splayed over the small of Hughie’s back, the dark fur a stark contrast to pale, smooth skin but for the first time it doesn’t look wrong.

It’s- romantic, almost. The closeness of them despite their differences. The miracle of being allowed to touch, to have it desired so intently makes his heart seize. This is all he wanted; to have someone worth protecting, someone who saw that maybe there were times when he needed to be protected, too.

His tongue slides in so easily now, and Hughie quakes with the stimulation, sobs into Butcher’s pillow and leaves yet another trace of himself behind. Butcher’s going to treasure him, make the most of every single moment, treat him exactly as well as he deserves. He starts with giving that pretty, swollen hole the dirtiest kind of kiss, delving deep to where Hughie’s pink and smooth and tastes like copper.

His own fingers, claw-tipped and dangerous, are not worthy of this task, can’t be allowed to mar the fragile softness Butcher exposes when he presses a thumb into Hughie’s ass cheek and spreads him wide. “Give me your hand,” he says, instead, and Hughie wobbles precariously but he finds his balance and he does it, without question, reaching back and huffing when Butcher kisses the tips of his fingers, draws one into his mouth and sucks.

Hughie's clumsy but cooperative, even though he has to be going half-mad with extended arousal by now. He's been hard since they started, since he dropped to his knees in the hallway, and he's so young but so willing to go wherever Butcher leads him. It’s unbearably tempting to drive him to the edge and keep him there, to test his limits. To render him mindless with need, nothing on his mind but Butcher and how he can satisfy him. Begging for his cock and how it can make him feel.

So tempting.

Butcher’s careful when he moves Hughie’s arm, when he guides him to where he needs him, eases the tip of that spit-slick finger inside and Hughie groans, twists and rearranges his body so he can push it deeper. And oh, it looks good. As much as Butcher wants to have that wet heat clutching at his own fingers, he won’t risk the hurt it could cause, but he can lean in and slide his tongue inside to torment them both further and prepare Hughie to take his cock.

He’s going to buy so many toys Hughie won’t know what to do with them all; this looks uncomfortable for him but he keeps at it anyway, driven by pure need, pushing deeper, delving in with two fingers and stretching himself, groaning at every exploratory thrust until he can scissor his fingers far enough that Butcher’s tongue can lathe between them as he does.

Butcher doesn’t like lube; it offends his senses with the fake, plasticky scent, but he’s taking no chances. He’s never done this but -the very thought makes him shudder- his family had dogs. He knows what might happen. There’s a bottle in his bedside table, hardly used, and Hughie’s eyes are unfocused and glassy when they follow his movements but there’s a smile on his face too, and he hums contentedly when Butcher strokes a hand through his hair.

“You sure about this?” Butcher asks, and the way Hughie blinks himself into greater awareness before his gaze alights hungrily on the hard jut of his cock is answer enough, but he wants to hear it.

“Yeah. Want you. Please.”

That’s- sweet. Better, in fact, than having Hughie beg for his cock, like he’d been contemplating. He wants him. Not just the pleasure he can bring him.

“I’ve never,“ Butcher realises he should have mentioned earlier, but Hughie’s answering nod is understanding, even if he doesn’t understand the full extent of the implications. “So- I might- knot you.”

That makes Hughie’s eyes widen, but even Butcher can see it’s in the good way, not the bad. “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

He’s still got two fingers inside himself, can’t stand to be empty and doesn’t have to be any more. Butcher slicks his cock, hissing at the cool liquid on his heated and sensitive skin, and then he gently pulls at Hughie’s arm, waits for him to balance and support his own weight again, to settle in with that perfect arch to his spine. Then, he pushes in.

They both groan, Hughie’s soft and overwhelmed, Butcher’s deep and dark and animal, and he snaps his hips before he can remember not to. Hughie mewls, and when Butcher attempts to apologise, whines, “Why did you stop?”

Now, Butcher would never harm him, but he doesn't intend to go easy on him either. He does it again, not holding back but more conscious of his movements so he can feel the way Hughie melts, doesn't even push back into the motion, just takes it each and every time Butcher tests a new angle, seeks out a greater depth until without even considering it, they're fucking in a fast, brutal rhythm.

“Fuck yes,” Hughie bites out, as though there could be any doubt of his enjoyment, with his sweet little moans, the utter lack of tension in his body as Butcher takes him, not quite as hard as he dares. He doesn’t want this to be over, doesn’t want to shove his knot home like his every instinct is demanding and find himself stuck, technically fulfilled but craving more.

Hughie’s hole is soft and loose enough that the slide is smooth, and he’s so hot and wet inside, so willing, his body parting around Butcher’s cock like he was made to take it. He’s so gorgeous, the long line of his spine and the damp curls of hair at the nape of his neck, the taut lines of his thighs, the soft curve of his ass. Butcher’s never seen anything he wants more.

Every thrust makes him a little less able to resist pressing his knot inside, because he’s realising it wouldn’t need forcing so much as gently coaxing, Hughie’s so ready to accept whatever he has to give. He has to be close; his legs are trembling, his breath shuddering, his head buried in his folded arms as he struggles to quiet any of his needy, desperate sounds.

Butcher reaches around to wrap a hand around the gratifyingly slick head of his cock, his own pleasure ramped higher by the visceral slide of heated flesh in generously leaking pre-come, evidence of Hughie’s enjoyment and arousal. The scent threatens to drive him mad, and Hughie pushes his ass back and he mewls his plea for more but Butcher has to lick his fingers, must taste him before he can continue, even though he’s sobbing and helpless.

He groans at the sharp, sweet burst of flavour on his tongue, and his own sound of pleasure is echoed in the body that clutches at him. Butcher craves more, is driving them both towards the edge and for once his senses work with him; the scent of Hughie’s sweat, the pounding of his heart, the tiny hitches of his breath when Butcher fucks him just right, shunts his cock into the circle of his fingers. He wants to taste Hughie’s come, needs to feel him fall apart, has to claim him as his by filling him so that nobody else will ever compare.

Before it happens, he knows he’s about to feel the hot pulse of fluid over his hand. Hughie falls utterly silent when he comes, and then Butcher pushes home through the arrhythmic fluttering of his muscles and he cries out in not-quite pain, the sound levelling out into a pleasured groan before Butcher has time to regret.

Just pressing inside grips his knot in tight, hot pleasure, and it swells further, makes Hughie gasp and Butcher grunt like the breath’s been punched from him, almost doubling over with the impact of it. Fuck, it’s good, rippling through him and he’s always thought it was instinctive to fuck his way through coming, but being buried deep with Hughie’s body clutching around him is so much more in every sense. Butcher lets out an animal whine as he’s overwhelmed, the clench of muscle wrapped around his cock milking him of far more than he’d thought he could possibly have in him in long, copious spurts.

“Oh my God,” Hughie pants, ragged and stunned, hands scrabbling at the sheets beneath him in instinctive panic even as his breathing descends into a long, low groan and he sounds drunk with it when he breathes a stunned, broken, “There’s so much. Fuck.”

“You okay?” Butcher has no idea if the soothing hand he strokes up the line of Hughie’s spine helps, but it seems to ease the trembling a little, at least.

“I can _taste_ it. Fuck, it feels good.”

For the first time, Butcher actually feels like he might be in over his head here. Slowly, gently, he bends and eases them both down onto their sides, curls up behind Hughie and pulls the blanket up over them, burying his nose in Hughie’s neck, lapping at the sweat-damp skin. Every now and then, Hughie shudders with an aftershock, ripples around him in a gentle wave of pleasurable sensation and then relaxes against him with a sweet little sigh of satisfaction.

Butcher aches to reach down and trace a finger around where they’re linked together, doesn’t dare look but needs to reassure himself of the reality, to check that Hughie’s not hurt and make him shiver with the gentle stimulation, inch himself just a little further into that tight heat to try and sate the urge to possess him completely.

“You alright?” he asks, instead, not that there’s much he can do if Hughie isn’t. His tail’s determinedly between his legs with his concern and fear, and Hughie reaches down to pet it vaguely.

“Better than. You?” There’s more worry in his eyes and voice than Butcher has any right to, and he picks up on the anxious whine Butcher attempts to suppress with his lips to Hughie’s skin.

He’s still stretched open and pinned, unable to really move, but there’s no sign of that when he shifts experimentally, twists as much as he can to face him. “Does it hurt you?”

“I should be asking you that.”

Hughie’s lips twist, but in rueful resignation rather than doubt. There’s not a hint of tension in his expression, and his body is lax and heavy. “I like it. It’s- a lot. But it doesn’t hurt. I wouldn’t mind if it did. You can be rougher with me- next time.”

“You’re sure.”

“More than. I’ll keep saying it ‘til you believe me, too.” Hughie settles, presses against Butcher’s chest until there’s a furred arm wrapped firmly around him. “Cuddle now. Worry later. And- maybe be prepared to get me a towel.”

Butcher snorts in amusement, but his voice still goes low when he promises, so far from his original intentions when he started this whole thing between them, “I’ll get you anything you want.”

“Good boy. Fetch,” Hughie murmurs sleepily, then yawns, then gasps, laughs when Butcher knuckles at his ribs, where he’s sensitive, to make him squirm very distractingly even with his presently limited range of motion. “Ah, no, I’m sorry, fuck!”

But it helps. Butcher smooths a hand over that abused spot on Hughie’s side, and curls up against his back after a final warning nip to his earlobe, with his nose pressed to the nape of his neck.

He had never thought they could have this, but they’ll figure it out.


End file.
